


Angel Cake

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Belly Kink, Button Popping, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fat fetish, Feeding Kink, Force-Feeding, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, M/M, Stuffing, Undernegotiated Kink, Weight Gain, feeder Crowley, feederism, funnel feeding, temporary immobility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have been dating for three months since they met a restaurant and Crowley became entranced by Aziraphale’s enjoyment of food. But all the indulgent meals are having an effect on Aziraphale’s waistline, and Crowley loves it.This is a fetish fic! Please don’t read if it’s not your thing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 279
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale has been dating Anthony Crowley for close to three months before he realized his trousers no longer buttoned.

They’d met, naturally, at a restaurant. Aziraphale had been (somewhat vocally) enjoying a delightful roast chicken dish when he felt eyes on him. He’d felt a flush of embarrassment - he knew what a scene he sometimes made when he consuming a really scrummy meal - which he pushed down irritably. He was a grown man and he enjoyed food, and he didn’t care who knew it. If anyone had a problem with it, he did not care. Defiantly, he raised his head to meet the stare, and found himself confronted with a pair of golden eyes, peeking over the tops of lowered sunglasses, observing him with a look that he could only describe as hungry. Aziraphale felt the irritation in him die, replaced by confusion and curiosity. Before he knew it, the tall, rangy, ginger haired man the eyes belonged to had risen from his seat a few tables away, glass of wine in hand, and made his way over to Aziraphale to introduce himself as Anthony Crowley. With fifteen minutes he was sitting opposite him and they were deep in conversation about what Aziraphale should try for dessert - the angel cake or death by chocolate? Crowley argued he should try both. Half an hour later, they were still drinking wine, Aziraphale very full from a really unseemly amount of cake and a bit tipsy to boot, and they had exchanged phone numbers and set up a date for that weekend, and the rest, as they say, was history.

Since then there had been many more resplendent restaurant meals, takeaways, surprise breakfast pastries, and quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol. Crowley was an excellent conversationalist, a considerate partner, knew his way around a wine cabinet, and could do really weird things with his tongue. Aziraphale has never been happier, but all good things come with consequences, and these consequences happened to be a rapidly expanding waistline.

He wasn’t an idiot. He’d known he was putting on a few, and it had been difficult going buttoning his fly for the past two weeks. But Crowley did so love taking him out for dinner (and breakfast and lunch and brunch and tea and a “light” snack). And he certainly didn’t seem to mind Aziraphale’s already rather round belly - quite the contrary, considering how he loved to pepper it with kisses when they made love, or caress it when it was a bit sore (or a lot sore) after an indulgent meal (lately, that was every meal). It was easy to forget about it, despite the increasingly sharp bite of his belt into his stomach after a delicious meal, especially when Aziraphale overtaxed himself a bit (which he almost always did).

And now, he was reaping what he had sowed. There was simply no way, no matter how he sucked his breath in, he could make the two ends of his fly meet, let alone button. And it was no use trying on a different pair; these were his roomiest trousers, which he’d been wearing almost exclusively for the last few days. It had been quite a fight to get them closed yesterday, struggling to fit them closed around the protruding swell of his growing abdomen. He’d thought then: I really must get a hold of myself. Nothing but a salad today, I think. But then Crowley had whisked him away to his favorite sushi restaurant for dinner, ordered a veritable boat of rolls and maki, and nearly all of them had wound up sliding down Aziraphale’s gullet. He’d wheezing and arching his back by the end of it, quite concerned that he might burst right out of trousers, but he’d managed to get home in one piece, rid himself of the dreadful prison of his clothing, and Crowley had strokes and soothes his overburdened gut until he had convinced Aziraphale he could certainly handle some matcha flavored ice cream, just a little bit. (It had not been a little bit.)

I’m still bloated, he thought, running a hand over the dramatic swell of belly, cataloging a host of new stretch marks he hadn’t noticed before. It’s Saturday, anyway, I’ve nowhere to go. I’ll just have a bit of lie in.

He abandoned his much maligned trousers and eased his pajama bottoms back on - the elastic, he suddenly realized, was struggling a bit to encompass his girth - and slid back into bed, where Crowley was snoring away, He read for a bit, his hand creeping up under his pajama top to stroke his troublesome stomach, and eventually he grew quite sleepy, let the book fall from his hands and his eyes closed.

He woke some time later. Crowley was no longer next to him in bed; he could hear him clattering about in the kitchen. With difficulty, he sat up. His stomach did not look much smaller. He was considering the implications of this when Crowley poked his head in the room. 

“You awake? Not like you to sleep so late.” He entered the room, bearing a tray laden with plates and cups. “I thought we might have breakfast in bed.”

Aziraphale was about to protest - breakfast was the last thing he needed if he was ever going to be able to get dressed today - but then the smell of eggs and bacon and pancakes and sausages hit him, and he realized he was ravenously hungry, and all protests died on his lips. He pulled himself up, Crowley setting the tray down on the nightstand and helping him by plumping up the pillows behind him, and dug in.

Sometimes when he was really enjoying a meal, Aziraphale would enter an almost trancelike nirvana state, the outside world dimming and the bursts of flavor and satisfying fullness of his stomach seeming the only real thing. He could put away quite an enormous amount of food when in this trance, and only realize exactly what he’d done when he came to, rather winded, his stomach painfully distended but his appetite gloriously satiated. This was what had happened the night before in the sushi restaurant and in fact it had been happening more and more frequently lately. It happened again this morning, and before he knew it, the immense breakfast Crowley had cooked for him was gone, the plates scraped quite clean, and Aziraphale was a groaning, hugely bloated mess. In disbelief his hands flew to his belly, shocked and a little embarrassed that during the course of eating his pajama bottoms had been pushed down the slope of swelling stomach and now sat at the base of it, so that his gut was sitting exposed on his lap (covering quite a bit more of it than he had expected), the top of it barely contained by his frankly overtaxed pajama shirt.

”Oh no,” he moaned, and stifled a belch into his fist. “Oh, dear.”

”What’s wrong, angel?” Crowley asked, having just cleared away the ravaged tray. “Do you need more?”

Aziraphale groaned. More, indeed! He had never felt so full in his entire life, and he had always been, admittedly, something of a glutton. “No, no more.”

Crowley had his hand on the heaving side of his bare belly. “Stomach ache?”

Aziraphale shook his head. That was the perplexing thing - he was enormously full, about to explode honestly, but he wasn’t sick m, exactly. In fact, he felt very satisfied, almost in a strange way proud. But also dreadfully embarrasses. What must Crowley think of him? “Oh, Crowley,” he says miserably. “I don’t know what you see in me, dear boy.”

Crowley clucked his tongue. “What are you on about?”

”Well, look at me.” He gestured time his supine form.

”I’m looking,” Crowley said, leering.

Aziraphale shook his head in disbelief. “I’m enormous!” He cried. “I - I’ve outgrown all of my clothes.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. Then he grinned. “Oh, is that all?”

”What do you mean, is that all? It’s humiliating!”

”Nah,” Crowley said. He had begun to run circles into Aziraphale immense belly, and it felt lovely. “Just get some new ones.”

”I can’t! I haven’t even got anything to wear to the shops.”

Crowley looked delighted. “Do you have a measuring tape? I’ll get you measurements and go fetch you some. Meanwhile, you just stay here and rest up for lunch.”

That seemed incredibly indulgent, just lying in bed and sleeping off his enormous breakfast just so he could fit a no doubt enormous lunch in its place, while his lover went out to find him clothes to replace the ones he’d eaten his way out of, but he told Crowley where he could find a measuring tape and let him stretch it around his expansive belly, biting back shock when he saw that it took nearly the whole tape to fit around him. When Crowley had taken all his measurements, he bustled our to go fetch him some clothes, kissing him first on the lips and then on his round, stuffed stomach, and Aziraphale settled down for a nap, stroking his belly and wondering what they would have for lunch.


	2. Chapter 2

Not again, Aziraphale thought faintly as he settled heavily into the passenger seat of Crowley’s Bentley and groaned, gripping his stomach. Not again!

Crowley had taken him for dinner at what had become their favorite restaurant - delicious food, helpful staff, expansive wine list, very generous portions (they went at least once a week) - and it had ended in what had become a very familiar way: Aziraphale, so full he could scarcely get out of his chair, being led through the restaurant more waddling than walking, to be gently deposited into the car by Crowley and driven home to nurse his obscenely bloated stomach for hours, with Crowley’s help (though god knew what was in it for him). 

Aziraphale whimpered and carefully stroked the ponderous swell of his belly. He was in quite a state: as the meal had gone on he’d become more and more undone. Overheated and out of breath from the exertion of eating, he’d been persuaded (after a few glasses of wine), to untie his bowtie, and then to remove his jacket and open his waistcoat. His shirt and trousers were still buttoned, but both were undeniably tight, the spaces between his shirt buttons swelling out with his undershirt-covered tummy. Beneath it, that undershirt had ridden up, no match for his bloating gut, and he could feel the hem resting just about his navel. When he stroked along his waistline, he could tell that the shirt was barely tucked in now, and at the seam where the shirt sloped upwards, there were little triangles of soft flesh bulging out - and in the front too, below the lowest button. It was amazing it had stayed tucked in at all. As for his trousers, the immense amount of pressure being exerted on its button and fly was astounding. It dug into his stomach steeply and was extremely uncomfortable, and with every exhale Aziraphale worried it would burst right off. 

What a spectacle he must have looked as they left! He groaned and cradled his stomach, thinking about the sheer amount of food inside of it. First there had been plates and plates of appetizers, followed by salad and creamy soup. Crowley had ordered them five different entrees, since Aziraphale couldn’t pick between them all, and said they’d share them all and bring some home — but Aziraphale had eaten almost all of four of them, and quite a bit of the fifth, too, barely even realizing what had happened until he was scraping his spoon against the last empty plate. By then he was ready to leave and skip dessert altogether, realizing he’d once again gone overboard, but Crowley had convinced him to stay, and ordered one of every dessert, again to share. And once again, lulled by the transcendent flavors and the solid heavy fullness of his stomach, Aziraphale had devoured the lot of them. And now he was explosively full, out of breath from the effort it took to lever his cumbersome body from the chair and weave his way through the crowded restaurant. 

Crowley slid into the car next to him and frowned. “Make yourself comfortable, Angel,” he said, gesturing to Aziraphale’s overtaxed trousers.

”Not in public,” Aziraphale feebly protested. 

”We’re not in public, we’re in my car,” Crowley insisted.

It seemed indecent, but the lure of freeing his belly from this tremendous pressure was too great. He struggled with his fly, trying to suck in as best he could to grip the button, but in the end he needed Crowley’s help to pop it open. All at once, his hugely distended belly rolled out, freed from its prison, and Aziraphale couldn’t hold back a rapturous sigh of relief. He could feel a line where it had been digging into his skin, even if he couldn’t see it, the crest of his belly simply too bloated to see over it. Really, how had even managed to fit this thing inside these trousers to begin with? It had been a struggle buttoning them this morning, involving holding his breath for long periods of time and writhing around on the bed, and eventually Crowley coming to help. He had, again, outgrown his clothes, he thought dully, and it had only been four months since he had replaced them. 

Crowley drove them back to his flat. They often wound up there after dinner out, when Aziraphale was in this state, which was pretty consistently always. Crowley lived in an expensive building with an elevator, and when Aziraphale was this full, he could not quite manage the stairs to his flat above the bookshop. There was a sofa in the back room of the shop he used to sometimes sleep on, but he’d been avoiding it lately; it was an antique and somewhat rickety. At Crowley’s, he could park in the underground garage and then carefully guide Aziraphale from the car to the elevator, then into his flat, Aziraphale cradling his poor belly and moaning the whole way. 

Once they were inside, Aziraphale collapsed on the bed, pushing his strained shirt up to his rib cage and exposing the incredible expanse of his stomach so he could massage it more effectively. Crowley hurried over to help, and the sensation of his hands on his skin felt like heaven, or maybe hell, considering how sinfully aroused he soon became. 

”Crowley,” he gasped, attempting to arch his back and failing - he was simply too heavy to move. “Please!”

”Angel,” Crowley murmured, “you’re magnificent, you did so well tonight. How did I get so lucky?” He proceeded to undress them both, while Aziraphale wondered on earth he could mean, but he soon enough forgot as Crowley applied himself to giving him transcendent pleasure.

In the morning, he was still absurdly swollen, but more mobile, at least. He took a shower while Crowley slept, soaping up his big round belly. It really was much larger than when they’d met; how much he had he gained? He shuddered to think. He did not own a scale, hating them out of principle, and he only got weighed once a year at his physical. His last one had been 10 months ago, and he’d weighed nearly 19 stone - over 260 pounds - and the doctor had clucked his tongue. The holidays had been soon after, and he always gained weight then. In February he had met Crowley, and he had been ballooning up ever since.

When he returned to the bedroom, wrapped in two towels that barely covered his rotund form, Crowley was awake, yawning sleepily. At the sight of Aziraphale he grinned lecherously, slithered over to him, and began to pepper his belly through the towel with kisses.

”Crowley,” Aziraphale asked, smiling indulgently, “do you own a scale?”

Crowley froze for a moment. “Ah,” he said. “Yeah, I do. Why?”

”Well, I don’t own one, and I think I’ve gained some weight,” he blushed - think! Some! Of course he had, who was he fooling? “And I’d like to weigh myself.”

Crowley looked a bit concerned, but he got out of bed and disappeared into a closet. He emerged a few moments later, scale in hand, and his cheeks were flushed with something like excitement. He put the scale down. “Here you are.”

”Right,” Aziraphale said, losing his nerve a bit. Oh, he hated weighing himself! But he needed to know. He dropped the towels, eager to dispose of any extra weight, and stepped naked onto the scale. He looked down. Frowned.

”Er, Crowley,” he said. “Could you ...?” He gestured to the scale. “That is, I can’t quite...” he patted his round belly and the problem immediately became apparent. He couldn’t see the scale around his stomach.

”Sure, angel,” Crowley said, crouching down to look. “Um, it says,” he cleared his throat. “About ... 23 stone.”

Aziraphale almost fell off the scale. “I’m sorry? Can you repeat that?”

“22 stone and 13 lbs,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale stayed frozen, his brain calculating helplessly. That worked out to ... 320 lbs? But that was impossible! Had he really gained 60 lbs in less than year? “Oh dear,” he said. “oh dear.”

Crowley helped him over to the bed to sit down. He looked down his plump - no fat, very fat - body. How had he not noticed how very big he’d gotten? Good lord! When he sat down he had to spread his legs so that his big belly could comfortably fall between his chunky thighs. He’d outgrown his clothes twice! He had new rolls on his sides he’d never noticed, and his belly covered half his lap.

“Angel, are you all right?” Crowley asked, biting his lip.

Aziraphale burst into tears.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale was very upset, and being upset, he found himself wanting to do the thing that made him happiest: eating.

So after crying for a good ten minutes, he wiped his damp face, and asked Crowley tearfully, “What’s for breakfast?”

Everytime he stayed over Crowley’s there was something delicious (and substantial) planned for breakfast. And Crowley, though he looked as though he wanted to press further into Aziraphale’s mental state, stood, and said, “I’ll rustle something up.”

Aziraphale stood and dressed in his boxers and undershirt. They didn’t fit; no matter how hard he tugged down his shirt or pulled up his pants, he could not get them to meet, and his belly stubbornly remained bare. He gave up and followed Crowley into the kitchen.

On the dining table Crowley had already set out plates of croissants and assorted pastries and was making a big pot of tea. Aziraphale sat down and dug in. He slathered the croissants with butter, moaning a little at the richness. While Crowley cooked he powered through the pastries, sending one after the other into his belly, still bloated from the night before but somehow hungry. When he finished, he sat back with a groan and a belch, rubbing his already expanding stomach, just as Crowley began to set down a platter of eggs, fatty bacon, grilled tomatoes, crumpets, sausages, and beans - a full English. Aziraphale picked up his fork and dug in like a starving man. He didn’t even offer any to Crowley, just started shoveling them in desperately, while Crowley sat and watched. He ate hunched over the plate until it became too difficult, the table pressing into his enormous gut, and then he slouched back, placed the plate on his broad belly, and continued. 

Some time later, he was mopping up the last traces of food with the last bits of crumpet. He licked his fingers, then let out a painful sounding belch. His stomach ached gloriously. But ... it wasn’t enough, he realized. It was not nearly enough.

”Angel,” Crowley asked softly, and laid a hand on his heaving belly. “Do you want more?”

He nodded his head. “Yes,” he moaned. “Please, Crowley.”

Crowley cleared away the dirty dishes and went to work cooking more, while Aziraphale massaged his full tummy and stifled belches into his hand. He slid his hand under his tight undershirt, feeling the stretched contours of his upper belly, where it was pulled the most taut, then slid down the incredible swell of it until it reached the soft, fleshy lower part, where his the elastic waist had rolled under. 320 lbs ... he thought. He never could have pictured himself at this size, and yet here he was. And if he kept eating like this, he’d grown even larger. He tried to imagine himself at 350 ... 400 ... even larger! He was certain he could never stop himself indulging like this. He loved how it made him feel so much. But Crowley ... Crowley ... 

He bit back a sob as Crowley put a dish filled with crepes on the table. They smelled and looked delicious, filled with chocolate and creme and fruit. He leaned forward to take the plate, gasping a little at the effort to lean forward around his full tummy, and set to eating them. They were like ambrosia. His tortured thoughts receded as the flavors filled his mouth, and he focused on the mechanics of eating. He slipped deeply into a trance, barely noticing as Crowley filled his plate with more crepes, his stomach stretching and stretching more to accommodate the enormous meal. 

Eventually he resurfaced. Crowley was sitting close by, gently massaging his belly, which was absurdly bloated with food, the skin stretched, angry and red. He became aware that he was hiccuping helplessly, so full he couldn’t even belch. Crowley moved the plate away, and Aziraphale let out a groan and clasped at his stomach. He couldn’t believe how big he was. He was going to explode, surely! It was horrible. It was wonderful. He wished he could eat even more.

”Crowley,” he groaned. “Oh, Crowley, I am so sorry.”

”Sorry for what, Angel?” Crowley sounded strangely breathless, his eyes wide as he tenderly stroked the poor, abused belly.

”That I’m like this,” Aziraphale gasped. “I’m such ... such a pig. Hic!” He groaned. It was gloriously painful. “I understand if you ... if you want to end this.” He closed his eyes, stinging with tears.

”Oh, Angel, no,” Crowley murmured, and kissed the apex of his belly gently. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I did this.”

”What on earth do you mean?”

Crowley made a strangled sound. “It’s so hard to say,” he said, his face going red. “You see, I ... I like this.”

”Like what?” Aziraphale had never been more confused.

”This,” Crowley said, and patted Aziraphale’s stomach. “I like how much you enjoy food ... enjoying eating. Eating a lot. I like your ... size. How soft you are. I like it ... immensely.” His face was as red as his hair now.

Aziraphale blinked. Was he dreaming?

”You’re pretty much everything I’ve ever wanted in a lover,” Crowley said. “But ... well, I should have told you right away, difficult as it was. I didn’t know how upset you were. And ... and even though that’s what attracted me to you in the first place, I love you Aziraphale. If you are unhappy like this, I’ll help you lose weight. I don’t care what size you are.” He cleared his throat and looked down.

”You love me?” Aziraphale said dumbly. He felt strange, almost like he was floating.

Crowley nodded, and looked up, a little shyly. 

”Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. He tried to lean forward but fell back, groaning. He’d almost forgotten how stuffed he was.

”Shh, shh,” Crowley said, leaning close. He petted Aziraphale’s enormous round belly like it was a treasured pet. “Don’t strain yourself.”

”Oh, Crowley, I love you,” Aziraphale said, and pulled him in to kiss him. “And ... and ... I can’t say I quite understand but ... well, I am relieved.”

”I mean it,” Crowley said. “I’ll support you if you want to slim down.”

Aziraphale thought of diets, and avoiding his favorite desserts, and exercise, and blanched. Then he thought about the wonderful, peaceful, sated, replete feeling he got when he was truly, mindlessly stuffed; how good Crowley’s hands and mouth felt on overworked belly; the shameful thrill of realizing his trousers were getting too tight, or that he was slightly too large to fit comfortably in a theater seat, or how he sometimes knocked books off the shelves at the bookshop with his belly when he came back from lunch with Crowley and was delightfully bloated. 

”No,” he said, firmly. “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

”Really?” Crowley said, looking stunned and perhaps a little hopeful.

”The truth is, I think I quite like it myself,” he said, a little primly. He patted his stomach thoughtfully. “I was only upset because I thought surely you must be disgusted with me. And now that I know that isn’t the case ...”

”Far from it!”

”... well, I find myself quite intrigued by the possibilities.”

”Angel,” Crowley said, grinning, “are you saying that you want me to ...”

”To continue fattening me up? Yes.”

”Wahoo!” Crowley kissed him soundly, before he could question what on earth that exclamation was meant to be. “Oh, Angel, I promise, I’ll take such good care of you. I’ll keep you so full, so satisfied. I’ll rub your belly whenever it’s sore. I’ll wait on you hand and foot.”

”You’ll spoil me, is what you mean,” Aziraphale was extremely pleased. He moaned and let his head fall back. “What was that you said about running my belly when it was sore?” He placed his hands on said belly, delicately, and let out a long breath. It ached deliciously.

”Oh, of course! Do you want me to help you to bed first? Get you nice and comfortable?”

”To be frank, I’m not sure I can get out of this chair at the moment. I am quite stuffed to the gills, dear boy. Thanks to you.”

Crowley groaned. “Fuck, this is so hot.”

Aziraphale smirked. “Belly rubs, please.”

Crowley happily complied.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains more extreme belly stuffing than we’ve previously had, slightly more explicit sex, as well as calorie counting, discussions of immobility, and detailed kink negotiation. Also, it’s getting a bit more bdsm than I originally intended, so I should update my tags.

After Aziraphale had digested enough to get out of the chair, Crowley had made him comfortable in bed, and they had made enthusiastic love - well, Aziraphale had been enthusiastic in spirit and left most of physical enthusiasm to Crowley. Then he’d napped, and woken up to Crowley finishing the final touches on lunch. When he tried to ease his still bloated body from the bed, Crowley had pushed him back. “Just let me take care of you today, angel,” he’d said, and Aziraphale had bemusedly obeyed. And he’d spent the rest of the day, Crowley eagerly tending to his every need, doing nothing but eating and sleeping, with Crowley taking care of his near constant arousal.

He didn’t think he’d ever been so turned on in his life. Between the constant ache of his gut, which apparently was a potent turn on for him, the endless quantities of delicious food, and the deep pleasure of being so utterly spoiled and fussed over, he spent most of the day writhing and panting in a haze of want. Being so encumbered by fullness that he could barely sit up, let alone actively participate in sex, was an unexpected turn on as well, and he was more than happy to lie back, holding his bursting belly out of the way as Crowley blew him or rode him or did all the other wonderful things he dreamed up to help take the edge off. 

They experimented with the new dynamic of their relationship in other ways, too. Crowley, rather than being a silent or only gently supportive figure in Aziraphale’s gorging, began to take an active role. When Aziraphale hit a wall, convinced he could not eat another single bite, Crowley murmured, “Are you sure, angel?” Then he pressed down on his heaving, distended gut, pushing a surprised belch from him, then another, until he smiled in a satisfied way and said, “there we are. I know you can manage a little more,” and Aziraphale found he was right. With these simple words Crowley could push him to extremes he had never dreamed possible, and with them, new pleasures. 

”Can I feed you, angel?” Crowley had asked towards the end of the day, when Aziraphale began to weary. He was so stuffed now he could only breath in short shallow gasps, but oh, he didn’t want to stop. He nodded eagerly, handing him a spoon laden with ice cream, from the third large bowl Crowley had served him. “Such a good angel,” Crowley murmured and approvingly, and bit his lip. “You need to let me know when you want me to stop,” he said. “What do you want to say?”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he meant. “Why not just “stop”?” He panted. His now free hand joined his other one to explore the new geography of his absurdly swollen globe of a stomach. Oh Good lord! He was huge! And he wanted so badly to be even bigger, and Crowley would help him do it.

”Sometimes, we say “stop” but don’t mean it,” Crowley said. “I want to be sure you really mean it. So we need a safe word so if you really need me to stop, I know to stop.”

Ah, that made sense. Aziraphale shivered. He could well imagine himself babbling the word stop without really meaning it. He wanted Crowley to take complete control, push him far past the point he might otherwise stop himself. But he also wanted the security of being able to put a stop to everything if he needed to. “What do you suggest?”

Crowley grinned. “How about “angel cake”?”

Aziraphale beamed. “Our first meeting,” he said fondly. 

Crowley kissed him. “Now, do you think you can remember that?” He nodded. “Say it even if you think you just need a break, and we’ll pause and reassess, all right?” He picked up the spoon again, filled it with even more ice cream and brought it to his mouth. “Open up for me, sweet angel.”

Aziraphale groaned and let him press the spoon into his mouth. The next half hour was the most blissful experience of his life. Crowley pressed more and more ice cream into his mouth, keeping the pace steady and just a little faster than Aziraphale might have managed, which kept him near breathless. He paused only once, ten minutes in, to refill the bowl a fourth time. Aziraphale slipped into a daze deeper than ever before, hypnotized by the creamy sweetness sliding down his throat in a neat constant stream. He felt safe, cared for, and so incredibly satisfied and relaxed. The sweet discomfort of his overburdened belly, stretched far past its usual maximum limit, and the increasing pressure of it against his lungs heightened the nirvana to a fever pitch. 

He never needed to use the safe word. He took everything Crowley gave him, and when the bowl was finally emptied again and he set it aside, Aziraphale was almost disappointed, though he was sure he really might burst if Crowley fed him anymore. But Crowley would never let that happen, he thought happily, as Crowley descended upon his belly, stroking it gently, soothing it, kissing it, telling Aziraphale how good he’d been, how well he’d taken it, how proud he was. He only stopped when he finally reached down to seize their cocks and bring them both off, Crowley groaning in sweet relief and Aziraphale just sighing happily as he came for the fifth or sixth time that day. 

He stayed in the dazed state for a few hours, while Crowley stroked his big belly idly and dozed a little. Finally Aziraphale yawned, sighed, and attempted to stretch, but could barely move, pinned to the bed under the colossal weight of his stuffed tummy. 

”All right, angel?” Crowley murmured, sitting up. “Do you need anything?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, darling, you’ve more than satisfied me in every regard.”

Crowley smiled smugly. Then he turned serious. “We should talk more, though. About our ... expectations. Though that can wait if you’re not up to it.”

Aziraphale was intrigued. “No, now is fine,” he said. “What kind of expectations?”   
  


“Well ... goals, I suppose. And limitations. For example, exactly how big do you want to get? Or more importantly, is there a weight that you would feel is too big? I don’t want to make you unhappy with yourself.”

”I hadn’t really thought about it,” Aziraphale confessed. “I like what we are doing and ... well, I rather like being fat, now that I know you like it, too. But how big? I’m not sure. I suppose ...” and he blushed, “I suppose I wouldn’t like it if it meant I couldn’t move or enjoy life much. How big is that?”

”It depends on the person,” Crowley said. “For you, I’d say ... probably around the 600 lb mark? After that you’d find your mobility very decreased.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. That was nearly twice the weight he was now, and yet strangely, it didn’t seem as impossible to imagine himself gaining that much weight. “No, I don’t think I would like to lose my dependence like that.”

”But I will say,” Crowley continued, “to be completely honest, the bigger you get, the more things you’ll find you’re unable to do - I know you’ve already encountered a few things that have become harder to navigate, like theater seats and the like. You need to decide what you aren’t okay with giving up before you set a goal weight.”

”I am a bit worried I won’t be able to stop, though,” he confessed. “I rather like this too much. I feel a bit out of control and ... well, I sort of like that, but I might not always.”

”Don’t worry,” Crowley assured him. “If you need me to reign you in, I will.” Aziraphale shivered a bit at the authority in his voice. “Also, after you reach a certain point you will probably find it hard to gain weight as fast as you are right now, even if you keep stuffing yourself so very well.” Aziraphale flushed with pride. “You’ll have to eat a certain amount of calories just to maintain the weight you’re at, and it will be hard to consume enough calories to add pound. Here,” and he fished around in the sheets for his phone. “There’s a website that bodybuilders use to determine how many calories they need to bulk up. Of course, their calories don’t consist of cakes and puddings like yours.” They laughed, and Crowley patted his pudding-filled tummy. Then he showed him the website. They put in Aziraphale’s gender, age (48), height (5’7”), weight (320 ... for now ...), and activity level (“little to none”, Aziraphale chortled) and set the amount he wanted to gain. “Let’s start small for now,” Crowley said. “What do you suggest?”

A thought occurred to Aziraphale. “Actually, here’s an idea,” he said, and he told Crowley about his last physical; how he’d weighed 260 then and had gotten a lecture, and he’d gained 60 lbs since then. “My next appointment is in November, three months away,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be rather naughty if I was a full 100 lbs heavier for it? Imagine what the doctor would say.” Before the embarrassment of it all might have killed him, but know he had Crowley to adore him made it strangely sexy. “Of course, 40 lbs in 3 months is an awful lot,” he admired. “Is that even possible?” 

”Oh it’s possible,” Crowley assured him. Let’s put it in.” He set 40 lbs as the goal and pressed a button. Below, a series of results appeared. “Right. It says here to maintain your weight, you would need to eat 3100 calories a day. And to meet your goal you need to eat 4635 calories a day.”

”And how much food is that?” He’d never counted his calories before.

”Oh, it’s a lot. But I’d say you ate more than that today, for example.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Really?”

”Really. There’s about 7000 calories digesting in that tummy of yours right now, angel.”

”Oh my,” Aziraphale, and felt strangely proud. He regarded his engorged belly with wonder. 

“But you spent pretty much all day doing nothing but eating. Most days you can’t do that, you have a business to run and such. So it will take work. You’ll have a schedule I set you and goals to meet, angel, and I will be checking up on you to make sure you meet them. Does that sound all right to you?”

”More than all right,” Aziraphale murmured. He was overwhelmed with a rush of excitement. Crowley sounded kind but stern, and he loved it. 

”We’ll have to be strategic too,” Crowley said thoughtfully. “Make every calorie count. What that means, angel, is you’re going to be putting butter on everything, and lots of it. You’ll be drinking heavy cream in your tea, and I’ll be putting both of those things in everything I cook for you. When you order food at a restaurant, you need to pick the items with the most calories in them. And you need to expend as little energy as possible. Can you do that, angel?”

Aziraphale’s eyelashes fluttered and he moaned. He was, impossibly, aroused again at the idea of all this gluttony and the effect it would have on his body. “Oh, yes, Crowley, yes. I’ll do it all.”

Crowley smiles. “You’re so good for me,” he murmured, and caressed his stomach gently.

They lay contentedly for awhile before Aziraphale spoke again. “If I’m to being avoiding exercise ...” 

“At all cost.”

”Well ... there is the matter of my flat, dear.”

”What about it?”

”well, there’s those blasted stairs, isn’t there? They’re already a bit of a problem for me. It’s like I’m climbing Mount Everest at times. And what you said about some things already becoming difficult at my size — well, that place is so old and small, all the doorways are narrow, the bathroom is miniscule. To be perfectly honest I regularly get a little stuck trying to get between the sink and the door.”

”Fuck, angel,” Crowley moaned, his pupils blown wide. “Move in with me.”

Despite the fact that Aziraphale had been angling towards this outcome, he was nonetheless pleasantly surprised when Crowley beat him to it. “Oh really, darling?”

”Yes,” Crowley growled. “Easier for me to keep you on your schedule, anyway. And keep you satisfied.” In a possessive gesture, he gently bit the plump swell of Aziraphale’s chest.

Aziraphale swooned a little. “But what about the shop?” He murmured. “Can you drive me there everyday? I certainly couldn’t walk.” He hasn’t walked further than the local patisserie in months. 

”Of course. I set my own work schedule.” Aziraphale was foggy on what Crowley did for a living but he knew he made a lot of money and worked as little as possibly for it, but was important enough that no one cared. “You should hire more help though. Don’t want you burning too many calories working.”

Aziraphale had hired an assistant, a young man named Warlock, a few months ago to help with stocking, which he had begun to find quite cumbersome. “Another assistant? I suppose I could.” 

“They could open and close the shop for you and handle customers ... you’d just have to supervise them, and you could do your book repairs in the back room. I know you prefer that to dealing with customers, and didn’t you say that’s where you make the most money?”

All of this was true. “Yes, that’s quite right. What a wonderful idea, darling.”

”Then we’re settled,” Crowley said. “You’ll hire a new shop assistant, move in here, I’ll drive you to the bookshop when you need me to, and you’ll eat enormous amounts of food and be as lazy as you can be, and get tremendously fat. Are we agreed?”

”Agreed!” Aziraphale said cheerfully. He wiggles with glee, or tried to anywhere, and sighed happily as Crowley settled in to kiss him and, most likely, make love to him again. He couldn’t imagine being happier.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found out since the last chapter that heavy cream is called double cream in the UK so I have changed it in this chapter ... jury is out whether I’m too lazy to go change it in the previous one. Also I continue to be super inconsistent with using the metric system, oops.

In the weeks since what Aziraphale privately thought of as their “Arrangement” had begun, Aziraphale’s life had changed rapidly, and he found himself enjoying the changes greatly.

He had hired the new shop assistant within a week, eager to finish moving into Crowley’s flat and start his new schedule. Luckily, Adam was a very competent assistant and he and Warlock got along well. Within two weeks, Aziraphale had turned most of the everyday running of the shop over to them and had fully moved into Crowley’s. He was sad to say goodbye to the tiny flat above the shop, which had been a very comfortable home for him for years, as well as the place where he and Crowley had first kissed and made love (as well as the location where he’d nursed a number of belly aches that Crowley had gleefully caused, though he hadn’t known it at the time). But it was time to move on. 

Aziraphale’s new schedule was this: four days a week, he woke some time between 9 and 10, woke Crowley (pouting that he was hungry), got up, and ate a hearty breakfast prepared for him by Crowley. Usually it began with some kind of baked good, like a dozen scones or croissants or a loaf or two of sweet bread. Crowley would give him a stick of butter and instruct him to use all of it as he ate. He’d also give him a pot of tea and a cup of double cream; he had to use all of it. Meanwhile he’d cook him up an omelet containing about six eggs, more butter and more cream, and about half a pound of shredded cheese; bacon and sausage cooked in even more butter; and porridge to which he added even more cream. By the end of all this Aziraphale would be gasping, his bloated stomach pushing through his too small pajama top or out from under an undershirt that kept rolling up no matter how many times he tugged it down. Crowley would give him an excellent belly massage, and when he felt capable of movement again, he’d help him get up and waddle back to the bedroom, where he’d assist him in getting dressed and ready for work. 

Then Crowley would drive him to the bookshop, usually stopping on the way at a cafe or bakery so Crowley could get himself a coffee and for Aziraphale, his midmorning snack, which usually consisted a dozen chocolate croissants or some other pastry, which he was instructed to finish before Crowley brought him a late lunch around 3.

He usually didn’t get into work until close to 11, by which time the shop had been open for a few hours. After greeting Adam and Warlock, he’d disappear into the back room and get to work on his book repairs. He couldn’t eat and work on the books at the same time - that would be dreadfully messy and improper - so in order to meet Crowley’s demands, he’d set a timer for once an hour to take a break and eat some of his snack, before washing his hands and returning to work. By the end he was usually uncomfortably swollen and burping, and all he wanted to do was lie on the sofa and stroke his belly, but he had to finish his work, because after Crowley came with his lunch he would have no hope of finishing.

At 3, Crowley would glide in carrying several bags of takeout and other treats he’d acquired, and set everything up on the table that used to be up in his old kitchenette, but had been brought down just for this purpose, while Aziraphale cleaned up his work. Crowley would usually turn on some music, as they’d learned early on that Aziraphale’s moans and belches could be heard from the front of the shop if they weren’t careful. Then Aziraphale would make himself comfortable on the sofa and begin lunch. Sometimes it was Chinese, or Indian, or pasta, or pizza; there was always large quantities of it and it was always the heaviest items on the menu, and by the end Aziraphale was close to bursting, his big, round belly freed from his clothes and being expertly soothed by Crowley’s hands. 

After about an hour break, Crowley would produce the treat he’d chosen for the day. Often it was a few delectable boxes of chocolates; Aziraphale found them irresistible and it was easy for him to convince himself he could manage one more, and then one more, and then another, until one box was empty and Crowley prying open another and settling it on the taut, heaving crest of his bloated belly. Crowley would also usually go find him a book from the shop to read, and lulled by the story and the comforting circles Crowley rubbed into his overly full gut, it was easy to slip into a happy, glutted haze and keep stuffing himself. He’d spend the next few hours that way, bloating his belly even further, while Crowley took questions from Adam and Warlock as they arose, only disturbing Aziraphale if they needed his expertise. Otherwise Crowley usually took this opportunity to update the journal he kept of Aziraphale’s diet, calculating all the calories he’d consumed so far that day and how much he might have expended (usually little). The numbers excited Crowley, and they were beginning to excite Aziraphale, too. He sometimes asked Crowley to read them aloud at the end of the day so he could hear just what he’d done to his body by gorging himself so effectively that day, and often the two found themselves succumbing to passion before Crowley had even got to recite the facts of Aziraphale’s 3000 calorie dinner.

How he managed to choke down that dinner everyday after stuffing himself to such an extreme remained a mystery to Aziraphale, but every night at 7, Adam and Warlock closed up the shop, and after they had left, Crowley helped Aziraphale get himself into some sort of decent state so they could leave. Whether or not they went out for dinner was usually determined by whether they could manage to button Aziraphale’s trousers. Very often they could not. Which was fine - Crowley was a fine cook, and he enjoyed the puzzle of fitting the remaining calories Aziraphale needed to hit his goal into one glorious finale of a meal. 

Leaving the bookshop with Aziraphale listing and waddling, his enormous belly often knocking over book displays and the like, and frequently having to hold onto unfastened trousers so that they didn’t fall down, was a real challenge. After the first few weeks, Crowley realized he could bring the Bentley round to the rear entrance; then Aziraphale could be guided out the back, which was much simpler. 

If they dined out, they usually went to one of a few trusted restaurants where they were favored customers and treated as VIPs. They were given private rooms and discreet waitstaff. This was in large part because they racked up quite phenomenally large bills and Crowley left sizable tips. There would be no snide comments as Aziraphale ate himself out of his trousers and Crowley ordered still more, nor when they needed to remain there for an hour or so while Crowley nursed Aziraphale’s bellyache and he could manage to propel himself out of his seat. They also let them leave through the staff entrance, sometimes helping Crowley guide Aziraphale out when he was especially undone.

But it was much more common for them to simply go home. Aziraphale still liked to sit at the table, still fully dressed except for his open trousers, his belly proudly on display. Crowley would serve him platters of creamy pasta, trays of lasagne, casseroles of cottage pie and other rich concoctions. Sometimes there would be pot roasts or whole fat crispy-skinned chickens, served with tureens of mashed potatoes swimming in cream and butter, and vegetables swimming in cheese. Aziraphale would always think, I can’t possibly manage all of this, but after serving himself a small portion, Crowley would convince him that he could. 

He rarely needed to use their safe word except to ask for brief breaks. But after ten or fifteen minutes of groaning and tortured belches, Crowley kneading his gut where it was most tight until he gasped with relief, he’d find it in him to handle more. And then, when he’d cleared every single dish, there was dessert. Crowley was kind, though. It was usually ice cream, often softened and blended with some peanut butter and double cream into an indulgent fattening concoction that was a little easier to slide into Aziraphale’s painfully packed stomach, filling in whatever little empty nooks and crannies remained. 

But Aziraphale’s favorite part of these days was probably what came next: the struggle of getting to bed. In the privacy of their own home, Crowley would step back and let him try to get up unaided, watching as he inched forward in his creaking chair and struggled to raise himself. He would lean forward, his heavy, burdensome belly sliding with difficulty between thick, widespread thighs, then brace himself on the chair and the table and lever himself up, belly first, like a pregnant woman well overdue with twins. Occasionally it would work, but often he lost his balance, or his legs, weak from fullness, would give out, and his would collapse back in the chair, which luckily was very well constructed. He’d sit, there gasping for breath, insanely turned on, and meet Crowley’s heated gaze, his eyes naked and burning without his shades on. Crowley would twitch a little, an offer of assistance, and Aziraphale would shake his head, no: he wanted to try again. Then he’d try a different tactic, rolling to the side and leaning heavily on the table, his sensitive gut usually banging against it and jolting it a few inches, making him groan in discomfort; he’d hang there for a moment, straining, before giving up and sliding back, embracing his troublesome, too huge stomach and moaning for Crowley to help him. And he would, breathlessly, tugging him up and supporting his heavy gut as they shuffled into the bedroom. Aziraphale would let him strip him, lazy and boneless, and get him into bed. 

They had sex most nights. How could they not, after displays like that? They were both so desperate and aroused they couldn’t keep their hands off of each other. How they had sex differed greatly depending on just how stuffed Aziraphale was. Sometimes the most they could do was rub off desperately against each other. When Aziraphale felt capable of it, though, he’d let Crowley arrange him on his hands and knees, his arms trembling to hold up his own weight, his heavy, full belly hanging beneath him. “Look at that,” Crowley would marvel, stroking the curves of his flesh. “Won’t be long before it’s brushing against the bed, Angel.” And Aziraphale would whine, begging Crowley to fuck him, and Crowley would oblige. By the end he’d be collapsed in a heap, crushing his aching stomach, absolutely loving it.   
  
  


Those were the days that he worked. The other three days when he stayed home were quite different. Crowley would keep him in bed all day, under strict orders to move as little as possible. Everything he needed he was to ask Crowley to get. Crowley would bring him trays of food, books, blankets, sponge baths. When Aziraphale was sure he couldn’t eat another bite, Crowley would take over, forcing spoonful after spoonful into his mouth until Aziraphale was gasping, his stomach furiously red and shiny with strain, aching to be rubbed. 

Sometimes Crowley had to go out on Aziraphale’s days off; to get food or other supplies, or on rarer occasions, to actually do his job. He’d leave Aziraphale with assignments. A plate of biscuits with a note reading “eat by 1 pm”. A cake: “finish before 3”. When he’d come back he’d find the plates empty, his angel drowsy and his lips smeared with chocolate, sighing dreamily about how stuffed he was while his hands lazily stroked his distended gut.

It was one of those days however, that Aziraphale went a bit off script. He’d completed all of the tasks Crowley had left for him but still felt strangely hungry. Lately it had been harder to fill himself; Crowley said his capacity was increasing quickly. He wanted more, but Crowley wouldn’t be back for some time. He wasn’t supposed to be back for quite awhile. Aziraphale knew it wasn’t supposed to get out of bed, unless it was an emergency, but surely Crowley wouldn’t object to it if he was going to stuff himself more - he’d be proud, probably. And any calories he burned would be more than made up for by whatever he consumed.

Decided, he began the difficult process of getting out of bed. When he was this bloated, he usually needed Crowley’s help, but he could manage on his own if he did a sort of roll on his side for momentum. It took a lot of huffing and puffing, but he managed to get to his feet, then caught his breath and began waddling to the kitchen. He was naked; he never wore clothes in these days, because without the restraint of a waistband he seemed capable of pushing himself to unbelievable extremes, often not even realizing how full he was and how big he’d swollen up until it was too late. 

When he reached the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and looked inside, wondering what would be best to eat, and then he saw it: the double cream. There were about 10 containers in there, because they used so much of it. Instantly his mouth began to water. He’d had a strange relationship with the stuff since Crowley had introduced him to it. It was delicious in cooking, making everything rich and luscious, but when Crowley had him start using it in all his tea and his milkshakes, he hadn’t been so sure he liked it. It had an almost oily consistency, heavy on the tongue. “You’ll get used to it,” Crowley said. “I’ve heard it’s quite addictive.” He had been right. After a few weeks, Aziraphale did grow used to it, and then began to like it. Crave it, even. One time, when Crowley wasn’t looking, he’d taken a sip straight from the little jug on the table, and had to stifle a groan of pleasure. It was so good! “How many calories are there in this?” He’d asked later. Crowley had told him one 300ml container had over 1000 calories in it. “You drink one of those a day, spread out,” he’d said. The idea of it was dizzying, and it made him crave the stuff even more.

Now Aziraphale picked up one container and looked at it speculatively. He wanted to drink it so badly. But if Crowley had wanted him to drink it straight, he would have had him already doing it, wouldn’t he? But how could he object? Anyway, he surely wouldn’t notice anyway.

Aziraphale closed the fridge and sat at one of the kitchen chairs, and opened the container. He took a tentative sip and groaned at how good it was. And that decided it. He tilted his head back and began to drink. 1000 calories, he thought. I’m drinking 1000 calories, on top of everything else I eat. He shuddered, guzzling the thick cream faster. It was gone before he knew it. He licked his lips as he lowered the container, placed a hand on his big belly, which felt bloated with the thick liquid, and belched. Good Lord. He needed to lay down.

He cleaned out the container and disposed of it, then shuffled back to bed, burping continuously. When Crowley returned he said nothing. The next morning, when Crowley made him breakfast, he saw his brow wrinkle in confusion as he took out the double cream; did he notice one was missing? If he did, he didn’t say.

Having gotten away with it, illicitly imbibing extra double cream became Aziraphale’s favorite past time. He would treat himself whenever Crowley was out. Everytime he thought “this is the last time” but Crowley had been right - it was addictive. One morning he even found himself calling Warlock into the back room, pressing a fiver into his hand, and asking him to run down to the shop to buy him some. The boy came back with an extra large, 600 ml container, and Aziraphale’s eyes nearly popped out. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to finish it. But he did, dunking the chocolate biscuits Crowley had left with him and slurping up what remained greedily. 2000 extra calories. He was unbelievable. This too became a regular occurrence.

All that cream certainly seemed to be doing it job, too. Within a few weeks of the new regimen, Aziraphale could tell he was gaining more weight, and it was piling on much faster than it had before. Every day his trousers became tighter, it became harder to fit through the narrow door of the bookshop’s back room, and bending over to pick up a fumbled conservation tool became such a struggle that he often asked Adam or Warlock to duck into help. He could see his stomach creeping further along his thighs, inching towards his knees, overtaking his lap. He was getting wider, too, and often found himself resting his hands atop his broad belly because they didn’t rest comfortable at his sides. By October he needed new clothes again, and when Crowley took his measurements with his shiny new measuring tape (it went up to 100”; the old one had capped off at 60” and was far too small to fit around his big belly), it read 73”. “You’re wider around than you are tall, angel,” he said, and Aziraphale nearly fainted with pleasure. 

So this was Aziraphale’s new life. His doctor’s appointment loomed in the horizon, and though they had refrained from weighing him, preferring the final number to be a surprise, they were both sure he would make the goal. Aziraphale couldn’t wait.


	6. Chapter 6

Finally the day of the doctor’s appointment came. It was early in the morning and Aziraphale had to fast for blood tests, and he was truly suffering. He hadn’t gone this long without eating in many months, and his empty belly was loudly protesting the lack of his normally enormous breakfast loudly. 

”Shh,” Crowley murmured, rubbing the whiny thing while he was helping Aziraphale button his trousers, “we’ll fill you up soon enough.”

Despite not being constantly bloated for once, Aziraphale still looked huge. The clothes they’d replaced a few weeks before were already becoming a little snug. He got out of breath very easily, he’d grown lazier than ever, and for the last week he’d slipped down to doing only 3 days a week in the bookshop. Which meant he was spending the majority of every week lazing in bed, stuffing his belly bigger and bigger and sleeping off his frequent food comas. 

He was nervous and excited for the appointment. It was sure to be tremendously embarrassing, and now that he had fully embraced his true gluttonous personality and had Crowley, who appreciated it so much, he found himself enjoying all the negative attention his increasing size got him. He was completely out of control, getting fatter and fatter, and everyone who saw him knew it.

Crowley dropped him off at the entrance to the doctor’s office so he’d have as little distance to walk as possible, and then went to park the car and wait. Inside, he could feel people’s eyes on him, judging him. He was used to it now. People couldn’t help but stare at someone as fat as him. 

In the waiting room, all the chairs had arms and he knew that he would not fit in them without even trying. So he stood, leaning against the wall, trying to control his breathing. He hadn’t stood this long in ages, and his legs and back ached.

When he was finally brought into the examination room, the nurse took his vitals and gave him a medical gown to wear. She spent a few minutes sorting through the drawer, and Aziraphale knew she was looking for the biggest size available. Sure enough, when he unfolded it after she left, it was enormous, like an unfurled flag. But after he had struggled out of his clothes (getting very out of breath in the process) and put it on, it was still a bit too small; he couldn’t quite close the back, and had to tie it with a small but considerable gap, exposing his bottom. He stood there for a few moments, gasping and trying to quell his excitement. His gut looked enormous underneath the expanse of cloth. He wished there was a mirror. 

He was interrupted by the doctor’s arrival. Dr. Gabriel was tall and athletic and had always disapproved of Aziraphale’s rotund body, and the expression of shock when he saw how simply immense his patient had grown in the past year was priceless. Aziraphale had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing.

”Well, Mr. Fell,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let’s start by weighing you.”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. The moment had come.

He was led over to the medical scale. When he stepped on it, it made a loud clunk. He heard Dr. Gabriel make a slightly concerned noise, and worried for a moment that he might have broken it (what a thought that was!) but the numbers began to rapidly climb. He watched them, breath bated, his eyes going wider as they climbed and climbed. When they finally stopped, he stared, frozen, unsure if he was reading then right. But then Dr. Gabriel read them out loud, confirming it ... 

Crowley drove up to the door to pick him up when he left the building. As Aziraphale lowered himself into the car, struggling to catch his breath from the unusual exercise, Crowley asked, “Well?” He was grinning with excitement. “Did you do it?”

Aziraphale settled back against the seat, trying to slow his hammering heart, and began the struggle with the seatbelt. He had to pull the strap all the way out, and then maneuver the buckle around his plump hip, which partially covered the other end of it. “Yes,” he said. “I did.”

Crowley let out a whoop. “What’s the magic number then?”

Aziraphale settled his hands on his big belly, looking at it in wonder, face flushing. “386 lbs.”

Crowley was silent, stunned for a moment. Then he pulled the car away from door, found a spot nearby to pull into, and put it into park. “Repeat that?” He asked, a little breathlessly.

”386 lbs,” Aziraphale said. He snuck a glance at Crowley’s face. He looked gobsmacked. Aziraphale gave him a shy smile. “That’s right. I gained 60 lbs in 3 months, Crowley.”

”Holy shit,” Crowley said. “Holy —“ He fumbled with his own seatbelt, and once freed, launched himself at Aziraphale, kissing him madly, running his hands over the incredible expanse of his middle. 

Aziraphake whined, pulling Crowley close to him. “Oh my dear,” he gasped. “I’m so fat! I can’t believe how big I am!”

”Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Crowley gasped, kissing and nibbling along his angel’s plump neck. “But how, Angel? Were my calculations off? I was expecting you to go over the goal a little, you’re such a glutton, but not 20 lbs over — what?” The last exclamation was in response to Aziraphale’s suddenly blazing face. “You know, don’t you? What are you keeping from me? Tell me, angel.”

”Well,” Aziraphale said, “I may have ... indulged a bit more than you knew when I was alone.”

Crowley’s glasses slid down his nose and his hazel eyes bored into Aziraphale’s sheepish blue ones. “Details, please.”

So Aziraphale told him about the extra double cream he’d started sneaking — at first just started home, then increasingly at the bookshop, until he was imbibing an extra 2000 calories nearly every day. As he spoke, Crowley’s eyes grew wider and his mouth slid open in shock. 

”I hope you aren’t annoyed with me,” Aziraphale murmured when he was done. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I suppose the naughtiness was part of the appeal.”

”Angry?” Crowley said, his voice raspy. “Angel, I don’t know if I ever been more turned on in my life. Hell! You’re fucking amazing. No wonder you blew up the way you did.”

Aziraphale blushed. “I suppose I knew there would be consequences, but I guess I didn’t realize just how much of it there would be.” He shivered and caressed his swollen body, thrilling at the idea how much of it was thanks to all of that cream.

”Oh angel, you have no idea. You know what cream does to your body, don’t you? It’s not just the calories and the fat. It resets your metabolism, slows it way down, makes your body hoard fat like it’s about to go into hibernation.” He let out a shaky breath and squeezed Aziraphale’s tummy, making the other squeak a little. “If you keep drinking it like you have been, angel, you’re going to wind up absolutely massive, you know? Much bigger than you are.”

”Good,” Aziraphale groaned. The pent up arousal he’d been feeling since he’d arrived for the appointment was catching up to him now. “Good, that’s what I want, Crowley. I want to be fatter, so much fatter.”

Crowley growled, then hoisted himself off of Aziraphale, and refastened his seatbelt, his hands shaking. “I need to get you home,” he panted. “I’m so fucking horny right now, fuck.” He fumbled around in his pocket and pulled out his phone, then thrust it at Aziraphale. “Order yourself takeaway. Whatever you want. As much as you want. Go wild.”

As Crowley peeled out of the lot and started speeding home, Aziraphale began to order a truly astounding amount of food. He couldn’t decide what he wanted, so first he ordered several pizzas, then Chinese, then saw there was a French bistro that delivered, too. As food piled up in the cart, he began to get more and more aroused, shifting around in his seat and panting. Next to him, Crowley was making little whiny noises as he drove, the heel of one hand pressed against his aching hard cock.

They pulled to into garage and parked just as Aziraphale submitted an order for a dozen cupcakes from a bakery. Crowley leapt out of the car, ran around to Aziraphale’s side, pulled him out of the car, and hurried (as much as he could, Aziraphale was rather slow these days) him into the elevator. Once inside, he pressed Aziraphale against the elevator wall and began to kiss him and rub himself against his big round tummy. Aziraphale just held in for dear life and moaned.

Somehow they didn’t encounter anyone on the way to Crowley’s flat. Once inside, he told Aziraphale to sit down at the table, then rummaged in the fridge, emerging with a container of cream. “Here,” he said, his voice hoarse, “drink this while you wait for your food to arrive.” As Aziraphale eagerly opened the container, he pulled a chair - his favorite chair, the one that looked like a throne - over so that he was sitting opposite, and slumped in it. And then he opened his pants and started stroking himself.

Aziraphale, who had just begun to tip the cream down his throat, nearly choked. “Don’t stop,” Crowley commanded, thrusting into his hand, “keep going.”

His eyes wide, Aziraphale began to drink again. Crowley moaned, tugging harder at himself, clearly very turned on at the sight of his fat boyfriend fattening himself further with pure cream. A peculiar feeling of power settled over him. He loved having Crowley be in control of him, the safety and helplessness of it, but for the first time he really appreciated just what effect his gluttony and his rotund body had on Crowley. Though he was obeying Crowley right now, he was in some way the one in control.

He lowered the cream, catching his breath, and said, “Let me tell you about the rest of the appointment.” Crowley groaned, his eyes stuck on Aziraphale’s plump lips, the pink tongue darting out to catch any traces of cream. Aziraphale began to recount to Crowley all the details of the appointment; how out of breath he’d gotten getting there, how the waiting room chairs had been too small for his girth; how everyone had stared at him; the too small medical gown, the expression on Dr Gabriel’s face when he’d seen him. How when he’d told him that he weighed 386 lbs that he’d followed it up with “that means you are extremely morbidly obese, Mr. Fell”. How Aziraphale had sweated and struggled through the rest of the appointment, unable to reach his toes as the doctor has asked him to try, his bare bottom poking out when he bent over; the way the examination table had shrieked when he’d climbed on it and how his belly had stuck straight in the air when he lay down and Dr Gabriel had struggled to palpate his abdomen through the soft cushy layers of fat on his belly. How he’d had to try three times to sit up afterwards. How when the appointment was over, it had taken him nearly ten minutes to dress himself, so unused to doing it alone with this big belly in the way. Putting his shoes on had been especially troublesome. And he described the stack of papers the nurse had given him on the way out on the dangers of obesity, and how he’d dropped them into the trash gleefully on the way out.

The whole time, he guzzled the thick, luscious cream, draining it slowly. Crowley watched, him wide eyed, his breath hitching and his cock so enforced it was nearly purple. When Aziraphale finished his story with one last tidbit — that he’d realized when he saw himself in the reflection of door as he was leaving the he’d missed one shirt button, right at the apex of his belly, where it was hardest to reach, and creamy fat flesh was bulging out, and everybody he’d passed had obviously noticed — “I’m so fat now I’m becoming indecent,” he sighed — Crowley let out a howl and came explosively all over his hand. Aziraphale sucked down the last of the cream, watching the whole time, then licked opening the bottle clean and belched. He tossed the empty container aside, and then hoisted his belly out of the way with one hand while frantically unbuttoning his trousers with the other. Then he finally had his poor cock in his hand. He’d been gently thrusting his hips, rubbing it against the underside of his belly all this time, and he was desperate to come. He stroked himself no more than three times, grunting with the effort of reaching around his big gut, and then exploded. Crowley watched him, limp and twitching.

They were silent for awhile recovering, and then Aziraphale’s monstrous but still mostly empty belly made a growling noise, and they both laughed. Then the buzzer sounded; the first of his many delivery orders was here.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m marking this as the last chapter though I may add more later. This is the end of the main story though.

The first food to arrive was the pizzas. While Crowley made himself decent and went to collect them, Aziraphale tried to decide if he should button his trousers up again. They’d been getting tight again already. He wondered if he could manage to pop the button today. He’d have to eat an enormous amount of food to accomplish it; luckily that was exactly what he intended to do. So with difficulty, he wrestled his belly into his trousers again and fastened the button. Crowley came back in the room, laden with three large pizzas, and raised his eyebrows at the sight.

The smell of the pizzas made Aziraphale moan. He was so incredibly hungry. As soon as Crowley had deposited the boxes in front of him, he tore open the top one, grabbed two slices of thick, greasy, cheesy pizza, and folded them onto each other like a sandwich. Then he began to devour them, cramming into his mouth desperately. Normally Aziraphale did not like to be a messy eater, but it was as if some kind of demon had possessed him. He needed all of this food in him immediately.

He polished off the first pizza in under 15 minutes, then the second one in just as little time. He was starting to feel a little more satisfied, but he was nowhere near full yet. As he started in on the third pie, the bell rang again. Crowley, who’s been watching him, transfixed, jumped and ran to get it. He came back soon after, as Aziraphale was halfway through the pizza, with two large bags of Chinese take out, and began setting it up in the table. When Aziraphale finished the third pizza, he swiftly took the box away and handed him a large container of lo mein so he could continue on without a break.

Aziraphale slid into one of his trances as he continued to gorge himself. All there was in the world was his steadily filling belly, an endless flow of food, and Crowley’s gentle words of encouragement. Gradually he became aware of a tight pain digging into his belly. It grew sharper and sharper until the discomfort pulled him out of his trance, and he came back to himself, clutching his belly, groaning. His trouser button was cutting into his belly fiercely, and when he reached around to feel it, he could feel that it was hanging on by a thread. 

Crowley was setting up more food - crepes and a thick potato soup and succulent looking coq au vin from the French restaurant, it must have arrived while Aziraphale was consumed by eating - and looked up at his moaning. “All right, Angel?”

”Help,” Aziraphale whined, struggling to rub his big belly. It was straining again his shirt, too, the buttons on it pulled taut. His shirt had come untucked from his trousers and his undershirt was riding up his belly underneath. 

Crowley came over at once and began to skillfully massage his stomach, searching for tender spots and working little burps out of Aziraphale. Then he began to feed the last of the Chinese food to him, massaging as he went. He’d mound up a spoonful of fried rice, tip it into his mouth, then pause to caress the bulging belly, then press a chicken wonton to his mouth. Finally he poured him a large glass of wine and told him to chug the entire thing. As Aziraphale obeyed, he forcefully rubbed the expanding belly, and Aziraphale felt an enormous swell of pressure build in his gut. As soon he’d swallowed the last dregs of wine, Crowley pressed the heal of his hand into the crest of his stomach, and an immense belch erupted from Aziraphale’s mouth. His belly jolted from the release of pressure and then there was a “pop” and a sudden sense of relief as Aziraphale’s enormous gut rolled free to cover his lap. 

”Ohhhhhhh,” Aziraphale groaned in satisfaction. His closed his eyes for a moment in bliss and when he opened them, Crowley was smiling warmly at him, his eyes glimmering. 

“God, I love you,” Crowley said. “You’re too perfect to be real.” He leaned down and kissed the bulging flesh between his shirt buttons, his hands rubbing circles into the taut flesh. Aziraphale sighed and stroked the sides of his belly, feeling where the skin was stretched tight over his engorged stomach, and the soft, lush fat of his lower tummy, the now ruined trousers framing it on either side. 

”More,” he moaned, “Crowley, I need more.”

Crowley obliged. He gave him the first container of savory crepes, and when he had finished that, the soup, along with a loaf of crusty bread. Then he gave him more crepes. By this time Aziraphale was gasping for breath, approaching full capacity, and shirt buttons were close to going the way of his trousers. When Crowley slid the chicken and mushrooms and potatoes his way, Aziraphale took a shuddering breath and hunched over, prepared to shovel it in quickly before his stomach could protest; but the action was the final stress that the bottom two buttons on his shirt needed, and they tore off. Crowley groaned and reached around his gut to rub the freed flesh. “Keep going, angel,” and Aziraphale obeyed, stuffing himself with the rich fattening dish as quickly as he could. By the time he was done, five more buttons were gone, and Crowley helped him wriggle out of the destroyed shirt. This left him in his undershirt, which was skin tight and had ridden up just above his navel. Aziraphale sat back, struggling to breath, and tried to pull the shirt down further; it only stretched a little more though, and when he let go, it rolled right back up. Amazing to think it had fit him this morning - a tight fit, yes, but he’d been able to tuck it into his trousers, just barely. Not so amazing when he really considered just how much he had eaten in the last two hours. And there was still more left.

Crowley brought him the last of the French food, some sweet crepes, and placed it on the shelf of his huge belly; it was just too uncomfortable for him to lean forward enough to reach the table now. Sluggishly, Aziraphale brought forkful after forkful to his mouth, panting and moaning after every bite, while Crowley kneaded his protesting tummy, trying to free up any possible room left in it. The hefty box of cupcakes sat on the table, enticing him. He would surely explode if he tried to eat then, too. (He was definitely gping to eat them.)

Finally he finished the last of the crepes. He was hiccuping painfully, his stomach heaving and shuddering with each breath. He stretched his arms around the solid, turgid weight of it, and then gasped. “Crowley,” he groaned, “look.”

He was so bloated, so big, that his arms couldn’t reach all the way around his belly. Try as he might, his hands stopped a few inches short. He was utterly massive.

”Angel,” Crowley moaned. He was rocking back and forth in his throne, which he had pulled over to be closer. “Angel, fuck. I want to ride you. Let’s go to bed.”

Aziraphale smiled lazily. “But the cupcakes!”

Crowiey smiled wickedly. “Don’t worry. We can do both.”

Getting Aziraphale up and to bed was a struggle. He had never been quite this stuffed before. Crowley tugged and heaved and Aziraphale tried hard to arch his back and pull himself up but he was so incredibly heavy and round. It took a good ten minutes, but finally Crowley was able to get him to his feet by slinging Aziraphale’s arm over his shoulder and half lifting him. Aziraphale, once standing, struggled to keep his balance: his sense of gravity was so thrown off by the enormous, burdensome belly dragging down his front. As he waddled to the bedroom with Crowley half cradling his gut, half holding him up right, every step was a struggle. His legs were shaking under the weight, and he was panting and red faced from each shuffled step. 

He loved it.

He remembered not liking the idea of immobility when he had first intentionally started gaining weight, but the huger and more unwieldy he got, the more he started to see the appeal. He loved feeling so out of control, off balance, and out of breath and knowing that it was all because he was such a glutton and couldn’t stop eating.

In the bedroom, Crowley had him support himself on the dresser while he tugged down his too tight trousers and boxers, then sat him on the bed to slide them off his legs. “Don’t lay down yet, I’ll never get you up,” he joked, and Aziraphale did his best to remain upright. Crowley stripped off his undershirt, then together they got him into position against the pillows and he finally sank down with a sigh of relief. His hugely distended gut rose before him like a mountain, so high he could barely see over it. 

Crowley disappeared for a few moments. When he returned he was naked, his cock hard and leaking, and carrying the cupcakes arranged on a plate and a large tumbler filled with cream and a straw. He placed them on the bedside table, ensuring they were in Aziraphale’s reach, and then he fumbled around in the drawer for the lube. He settled himself on the other side of the bed and said, “I’m going to get myself ready. Help yourself.”

So Aziraphale began to cram the cupcakes into his mouth while Crowley watched, fingering himself. Normally Aziraphale would have eaten with more care, but he was far past the point of caring. Every mouthful he swallowed seemed to be another step over the line of being dangerously full. But he couldn’t stop. Despite his extreme fullness, they were absolutely delicious, the buttercream thick and rich and sweet, the cake moist and buttery. Every few bites he would suck down some of the greasy cream, groaning at the way it filled and stretched his already overburdened belly.

Beside him, Crowley gasped and swore, his fingers plunging in and out of his entrance, his body writhing, his eyes moving rapidly between Aziraphale’s constantly chewing mouth and his stupendously full stomach. At last he couldn’t take it any more. He maneuvered himself into Aziraphale’s prone lap, and finding it rather obscured by his gut, took an armful of his fat belly and pushed forward. Aziraphale groaned at this manhandling, and also because of the friction of the underside of his plump stomach against his hard cock. “Angel, need a little help,” Crowley gasped, clearly a little overwhelmed by the effort of holding his stomach out of the way, and Aziraphale hastened to reach around with the hand that was not stuffing himself with cupcakes to help lift it. With a sigh of relief, Crowley seated himself on Aziraphale’s cock in one slow slide, punctuated by their moans. Then he began to fuck himself on it.

Aziraphale just laid there, dazed and in a stupor. His stomach was so full it was throbbing, the skin angry red and shiny with strain. Over the enormous crest of it he could just see Crowley’s flushed face, dumbstruck with pleasure. Gasping he turned his head to the side. There were five cupcakes left, and half the glass of cream. With his free hand he grabbed a cupcake and mashed it into his face, chewing and gasping and swallowing and reaching for another. “Fuck, angel, fuck,” Crowley moaned, watching him. “You’re insatiable. My glorious fat angel.”

At last he stuffed the last cupcake into his mouth, then picked up the glass of cream and began to drain it. Crowley howled, back arching, his arms clutching at Aziraphale’s huge belly, and came. Aziraphale slurped up the last of the cream, and with the straw still in his mouth, orgasmed as well, his poor abused stomach muscles struggling and failing to contract around the overstuffed belly.

Crowley collapsed on his stomach, moaning and stroking it. They lay there like that, both completely spent, until eventually Crowley crawled off of him and lay in the bed. 

”Hell, angel,” Crowley said. “You outdid yourself. I can’t believe you ate all of that.”

”I can’t either,” Aziraphale mumbled. His stomach felt like it might burst at any moment. He’d never felt so deliciously stretched and pinned down by his monstrous gut.

“I mean it, angel,” Crowley, in awe. “You need to see yourself right now. It’s impossible to describe.” He got up, wincing a little, and found his phone. He had to step back from the bed a few times to get Aziraphale’s whole form into the frame. Then he snuggled back next to him in the bed and showed him the photo.

Aziraphale barely recognized himself. It was one thing to see his ever fattening face in the mirror everyday and another to see it like this. In this position, his neck was obscured by his huge double chin. His plump chest and arms were resting atop his belly. And his stomach - dear god. Seeing it from this angle ... he practically looked inflated. The crest was perfectly round, sticking up nearly two feet in the air, striped with stretch marks. At the apex of his belly, his navel had actually been pushed out a little by the pressure of his stuffed gut. The creamy soft fat at the bottom had been pushed down and to the side by his enormously stretched stomach, and completely covered his privates, which is why Crowley’d had such difficulty fucking him.

When he thought of his he’d looked less than a year ago - how fat he’d thought he’d been at 260 lbs, and now here he was at nearly 400, regularly eating enough food for a family of ten ... good lord. He never wanted to stop. 

Crowley had started pressing loving kisses to his aching belly now, murmuring about how perfect it was, how proud he was. “Angel,” he said, “try sitting up.”

Aziraphale’s widened. “Crowley! You know I can’t.”

”Yeah, but I like to see you struggle.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but his heart beat a little faster at that. He put Crowley’s phone aside and propped his elbows on the bed, then with a groan, tried to lever his front half up. It was as if he had a boulder on top of him. He gasped, and tried harder, until his belly objected to the strain with a grumble and he sat back panting, clutching at it. 

”Fuck, angel,” Crowley whispered. 

But Aziraphale wasn’t done. Next he tried to roll to the side; he felt like it might be comfortable with his gut weighing down on his lungs. But this too proved impossible. His ponderous belly tilted and swayed but he couldn’t shift it. “Help,” he gasped, and Crowley slithered over him and pushed against his back until he tipped enough and gravity took over. The bed shook violently as his big belly slammed against it, and Aziraphale groaned in a combination of pain and relief. Crowley pressed against back and petted the sides of his belly, as much as he could reach. 

”What are you thinking?” He asked after awhile.

Truthfully, Aziraphale answered, “what it would be like if I was this heavy all the time.”

Crowley paused in his petting, then resumed. “Thought you didn’t want that.”

”I’m still not sure if I do.”

”But?”

Aziraphale wiggled, or tried to. “It’s a nice fantasy at least.”

Crowley snorted. “I’ll say. You completely helpless, dependent on me for everything ... and I’d be your humble servant.”

”You, a servant,” Aziraphale laughed. “More like a demanding master.”

”Oh, yes. I’d definitely keep you in line. You’d have to eat constantly you know, to maintain that size. Of course, your stomach would have a much bigger capacity than it does now. What you ate today would be a regular meal. A snack, really. You’d still be begging for more.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, panting, imagining the scenario in his mind. To be completely overwhelmed by his fat body and endless appetite, completely consumed by the never ending process of filling his belly. It was frightening and wonderful, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it to be more than a fantasy. For now though, it was a mostly pleasant dream. Lulled by the images in his head and Crowley’s soothing belly strokes, he drifted off to sleep. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! This gets intense, and I’m updating the tags to include funnel feeding, force feeding, and immobility.
> 
> Have fun reading and don’t try this at home!

It had been nearly a year since Aziraphale and Crowley had met and started dating. An eventful year that changed everything about how Aziraphale viewed his life. His goals had changed, his life had changed, and most of all, his body had changed.

He’d gained 170 lbs, for a start.

As their February anniversary neared, Aziraphale thought more and more about the path that had led him to where he was now - in love and weighing over 400 lbs. Those first six months of unintentional gaining, feeling so out of control and unable to stop indulging himself, while Crowley struggled to tell him how much he liked it. The incredible freedom that had followed, as Aziraphale embraced his gluttony and piled the weight on rapidly. In the two and a half months since his doctor’s appointment, he’d continued to push himself, growing fatter and fatter at a rapid pace and ultimately adding another stunning 50 lbs to his frame, bringing him to around 430.

Christmas had been especially helpful. He’d indulged in endless holiday treats in the weeks leading up to it, eating and eating with a single minded abandon until he was so full he could barely breathe, or talk, or think, and certainly couldn’t move. On the day itself, between himself and Crowley they’d received three separate invitations to holiday meals - brunch at Crowley’s friend Anathema’s, lunch with Adam’s family, and dinner with Aziraphale’s old friend Tracy. They’d attended them all, and the result had been a day of such excess that Aziraphale had been physically unable to leave Tracy’s house at the end. They’d had to sleep in her spare room, Aziraphale’s enormously swollen belly taking up nearly all the double bed. Crowley hadn’t minded one bit, squeezing in alongside his boyfriend’s corpulent form and soothing his obscenely bloated stomach while Aziraphale whimpered and hiccuped. He’d whispered how well he’d done, recounting the day’s feasts, the way Aziraphale had overindulged at every step of the way, even gorging himself with the leftovers they’d been sent off with on the car rides between each visit. By the time they’d reached Tracy’s he was waddling, struggling to breathe, the sweater he’d worn instead of his usual waistcoat (they had started to become far too restrictive) stretched to maximum capacity and starting to ride up the slope of his belly. Tracy had taken one look at him, shot Crowley a saucy smile, and immediately began plying Aziraphale with every treat imaginable. Over the course of dinner, he’d popped several shirt buttons beneath his sweater, and had discreetly popped open his fly while Tracy was out of the room, his indecency hidden by the globe of his hugely stuffed gut. And then he’d stuffed it even more. He’d been pinned to the chair by the end, stifling moans and belches, his belly filling his lap like an enormous boulder. Tracy had tutted and invited them to spend the night, and brought Aziraphale peppermint tea to help him digest, and then had gone up to her room to let Crowley struggle to drag Aziraphale to his feet and into bed. 

That day alone had probably added 10 lbs to his ever growing waistline.

Now, for their anniversary, Crowley had planned something extra special. A week away in a cottage in the South Downs. A week of nothing but eating and sleeping and sex. Though Aziraphale had reduced his hours at the bookshop even more - he only came in one or two days a week and rarely stayed the full day now - he was looking forward to this escape. More and more he’d begun to lose interest in the shop. Adam and Warlock had it well in hand and the place was so tiny, he was forever knocking things over or getting stuck in tight corners. He had, quite literally, outgrown it. Crowley had offered to set his book repair tools up in his flat, but Aziraphale found he’d lost interest in the endeavor and stopped accepting commissions gradually. The truth was, he had to passions in his life now - Crowley and eating - and he rarely thought of little else.

When their holiday finally came, he stopped by the shop to say farewell to the boys and leave them some instructions. To his surprise, he caught them kissing in the back room - how had he not realized? Warlock had been invited to the Young’s Christmas lunch and he and Adam had seemed very close, but Aziraphale had been too focused on the feast to pay much attention. When he told Crowley about it, he only laughed. “They’ve been dating for months, angel.”

The cottage was perfect in every way. Peaceful, quiet. It was also, to Aziraphale’s surprise, very roomy. The doorways were wide and theee were no stairs anywhere. There was a large sturdy bed, a simply enormous bathtub, and plenty of bookshelves. And a fully stocked kitchen.

They got right to it. Aziraphale wanted to try the tub, having found it difficult to fit in the bathtub at the flat for the last hundred pounds; while he soaked, Crowley brought him little treats as he cooked up a feast in the kitchen. When he was done, they got him comfortable in bed and the real eating began. Crowley served up course after course of rich, filling food, pastas made with cream, pork pies with buttery crusts, tureens of potatoes roasted in duck fat, and of course all manner of puddings - cakes and pastries and pies. By the end, Aziraphale’s stomach was throbbing, even it’s stupendous capacity surpassed. He’d long since been rolled onto his side so that the weight of his immense distended belly didn’t crush his lungs; he’d barely paused in his feasting to notice. As he and Crowley stroked his well stretched stomach, Crowley red faced and gasping with arousal as he admired his masterpiece, Aziraphale wondered just how big he’d be by the end of this week.

The answer was, of course, huge. Crowley kept him constantly stuffed, even waking him in the middle of the night to feed him cake and ice cream, Aziraphale sleepy and submissive, just opening his mouth and swallowing over and over as his belly groaned with overindulgence. He spent most of the week in bed, and when he did get up, to use the bathroom or bathe in the lovely tub, Crowley had to help because he was just too bloated to move. When he sat up in bed he could track the growth of his stomach as it crept further and further down his thighs; by the end of the week, at his fullest, it swelled past his chubby knees. He was so incredibly round. He couldn’t imagine fitting in the shop like this, he’d never make it through the front door! The idea excited and thrilled him. How could he ever go back to his regular life after this week of paradise and no responsibilities? 

The night before they were due to return home, as Crowley kneaded his engorged stomach, cataloging all his new stretch marks and exclaiming over how much larger he was, Aziraphale let out a long sigh. 

Crowley paused. “Have you had a good week here, angel?”

Aziraphale, who was easing buttery chocolate biscuits into his bursting stomach one after the other and washing them down with a mixture of cream and melted ice cream, chewed and swallowed with difficulty and replied, “Oh yes, darling. It’s been heaven.”

”Heaven wishes it was this good,” Crowley smirked. “But you really did enjoy yourself? You don’t miss the shop?”

”No, I don’t miss it at all. In fact, I wish this week would never end.” He shoved a stack of three biscuits into his mouth, feeling rather gloomy.

Crowley’s grin widened. “I’m glad to hear that. And the house? You like it?”

”Like it? I — excuse me —“ (he let out a tight, painful belch, moaned a little, and chugged some more of his creamy drink) “I love it, Crowley, it’s perfect. I never want to leave.”

Crowley let out a relieved sigh. “Guess it’s a good thing I bought it, eh?”

Aziraphale blinked, his carb-and-sugar addled brain struggling to keep up. “What did you say?”

”I hope you don’t mind,” Crowley said, kissing his heaving stomach gently, “but I didn’t actually rent this place. I bought it months ago and had it renovated especially. So we can come here as often as you like, angel. Or...” and he trailed off, blushing a little.

”Or?” Aziraphale prodded.

”Or, we could move here. One day. When you’re ready. If you want.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “But ... your work ...”

Crowley shrugged. “I can do that anywhere. And we’re less than an hour from London.”

His heartrate began to speed up with excitement. He struggled to sit up a little, but was defeated by the heavy mound of his gut, and sat back, groaning and panting, deliciously powerless. “But the bookshop ...” he managed.

”Adam and Warlock seem to have everything under control,” Crowley said. He bit his lip. “Be honest, angel - do you want to go back to working in the bookshop?”

”No,” he admitted. “I don’t. It’s quite a big change though. But ...”

Crowley slithered up alongside him, reaching around the broad expanse of his belly, and they both shivered when he couldn’t reach all the way around. “But?”

”But you’re right,” Aziraphale murmured. “Your offer is very tempting.”

”You can think about it some more,” Crowley said. “There’s no rush.”

Aziraphale steeled himself. “No. I don’t need to think about it. I - I want to do it.”

”Really?” Crowley said, breathlessly.

”Yes,” he said firmly. “Oh, Crowley, it’s all I’ve thought about since we got here. I just want to lay here and be fed by you forever. I don’t need or want anything else.”

”Fuck, angel.” Crowley wriggled against him, thrusting into the pillowy fat of his sides. 

“I’m going to grow monstrously fat, aren’t I?” He said with relish.

Crowley whimpered and thrust again. “Oh, yes, angel, you can believe that.” His eyes, which had slid to half mast, opened again. “Actually we should talk about that. Your limit before was 600 pounds ...”

”Which I’m certainly going to hit much faster than either of us expected.”

”Yes, you glutton.”

”It’s your fault, you tempter,” Aziraphale teased. “So you are wondering if I still have that limit.”

”Yes. If you do, that’s fine. We can slow down and still have a lot of fun.”

The idea of slowing down made his heart sink, but he made himself think about it seriously, imagined his belly twice this size, tried to visualize being more or less immobile at 700, 800 lbs, needing Crowley to help him with everything. What had once unnerved him now filled him with a sense of peace, a satisfaction that no other pursuit in life had ever given him. With absolute certainty he said, “That’s not my limit anymore.”

Crowley’s breath grew ragged. “Do you have another number in mind?”

”No,” Aziraphale said. “I want to get as big as possible. I don’t ever want to stop or slow down.”

”Angel,” Crowley gasped, “oh, angel, I’ll take such good care of you, I promise -“

”You’d better,” Aziraphale said primly. “Now do you mind getting me a spot of dinner? I’ve finished these biscuits” - he gestured to the plate that had been piled high an hour before - “and I’m feeling a little peckish.”

Crowley grinned wickedly. “How about a pan of lasagna?” He asked.

”Better make it two,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve got a good appetite, you know.

They decided to go back to the city together to oversee packing and have a chat with Adam and Warlock. The next morning they encountered their first obstacle because Aziraphale simply couldn’t fit into any of the clothes he’d brought. He’d spent the whole week naked, letting his belly stretch and grow unimpeded by fabric, and grow it had. Once he got over the shock of it, he and Crowley had a glorious time trying to stuff him into various articles of clothing and failing spectacularly. Aziraphale lay on his back, sucking his breath in and physically holding in his immense gut, while Crowley tugged on the ends of trousers, only managing to button the fly after straining for ten minutes. The zipper took another ten, inching slowly upwards while tender soft fat tried to burst free. When it was closed Aziraphale looked like a plump cupcake, his huge bare belly spilling over the side. Giggling and groaning at the stabbing tightness of the waistband, which had fit well enough a mere ten days ago, he struggled to sit upwards with Crowley’s help, and the moment he got fully upright several things happened at once — the button popped off and shot across the room; the zipper tore along with it; and as the cherry on top, seams ripped along both hips and one meaty thigh. They sat there gasping, and then Aziraphale lost his balance and fell backwards, laughing so hard his belly shook all over.

The shirts were also a lost cause. They couldn’t get one undershirt to stretch over the full apex of his gut, and when Crowley tried buttoning a dress shirt and sliding it over his arms and head, as soon as it began to expand over the swell of his stomach, the button gaps first stretched tight, then wider and wider, and finally as it rounded the curve they began to pop off, one by one.

Aziraphale felt outrageously debauched, spoiled and gluttonous. He also felt voraciously hungry, despite having already consumed a ten egg omelette studded with bacon, sausage, and cheese; a full brioche loaf slathered with butter; a dozen chocolate croissants; and two full glasses of cream. Crowley brought him some meat pies and a heavy beer that always made him belch and also a bag from his luggage. 

”Luckily, I thought ahead,” he said, and produced some shapeless lumps of cloth. They revealed themselves to be an enormous pull over top and an equally enormous pair of joggers. “I know, not your usual style, angel,” he said, “but you’re getting to the size where it’s hard to find much off the rack that will fit you that isn’t specially tailored. Of course we’ll get you a nice suit made when we get back to the city.”

Aziraphake found he didn’t much mind. After he’d finished his little snack, Crowley helped him get up and remove the tattered remains of his old wardrobe. While he disposed of them, Aziraphale surveyed his nude body in the mirror opposite the bed. Before he’d met Crowley he’d hated looking at his body, but now he saw it as a vehicle for pleasure - both his own and Crowley’s. This is me now, he thought, admiring the swollen, full crest of his stomach, packed tight with rich food, splattered with stretch marks, and the indulgent swell of belly, capped by a distended belly button, and girdled by a lush apron of fat that covered his pelvis and his half erect cock and brushing his rotund thighs. He stroked his arms over his enormous belly, shivering with pleasure at its tender sensitivity, the strain of his fullness beneath the thick layer of fat. He felt like an ancient god, something to be worshipped and sacrificed to. He told Crowley that and his lover slid to his knees and kissed his bloated, heavy stomach with adoration. “You are.”

The clothes fit him fine, were even a little roomy. He felt like a new person in them, like he’d fully given into this obsession, and he loved it. In the Bentley, he observed how much tighter the car fit around him, the car door and center console biting into his thighs and hips in a way they hadn’t before. He had to spread his legs wide for his gut to have room, and it shot out shockingly far past his knees, only about six inches from brushing the dashboard. He had to suck his gut in for Crowley to fasten the seatbelt. He didn’t know where to put his hands, and finally rested them on top of his big belly like a happy buddha - that is, until Crowley pressed a thick bacon sandwich into them. “Little snack for the road,” he said. “There’s two more in a bag here, plus a big bag of crisps. Wouldn’t want you to go hungry.”

Aziraphale was full to the gills, but somehow also starving. And he hadn’t gone longer than thirty minutes without stuffing himself with something all week, at least not when he was conscious. He took an enormous bite of the sandwich as Crowley started the car and pulled away from their new home, and moaned around the mouthful. It was loaded with fatty bacon and greasy butter spread inside a whole baguette. He ate it eagerly, making a mess of himself and not even caring, then licked the grease from his fingers and immediately started in on the next one that Crowley handed him, then the third one, then the huge bag of crisps. Then he spent the rest of the drive clutching his bursting belly and moaning from fullness, taking shallow little breaths on each inhale, and noticing vaguely that the dashboard seemed even closer to the cusp of his quivering swollen gut than before. 

Crowley drove him straight to their favorite tailor and cleaned his greasy face and hands off with wet wipes as Aziraphale grinned a little stupidly, feeling drunk on food and pure happiness. Then he helped him out if the car and he huffed and puffed his way into the tailor’s, whose eyes widened at the sight of him, and went to fetch his extra long measuring tape. In the mirror there Aziraphale saw his belly was poking out from the hem of this roomy shirt already. He tried tugging it down but couldn’t reach it and gave up. “I’m so bloated,” he pretended to complain. “My measurements will be off.”

Crowley grinned, all teeth. “On the contrary, I think he should give you a little room to grow into, angel. I’ve invited Adam and Warlock to tea at the Ritz later this week, and you know how you love their cream scones.” He patted Aziraphale’s round tummy, as though imagining how much more space it would take up after being glutted with clotted cream and jam.

”Oh,” Aziraphale murmured, lost in the same fantasy, and licked his lips.

They weighed him once they reached the flat: 448 lbs, at least 8-10 lbs of which Crowley estimated must be bloat. That still left around 10 lbs of extra weight that he’d seemed to gain in just one week, which seemed almost impossible, but was certainly borne out by the phenomenal size of his gut - the tailor had measured its circumference as a whopping 92 inches. They’d spent the rest of the day celebrating their achievement in bed, Aziraphale on his elbows and knees, fat belly pressed into the bed and spilling out the sides, his face pressed into a large chocolate cake that he devoured between moans while Crowley railed him.

Over the next few days they packed - or rather Crowley packed while Aziraphale ordered him about and gorged himself. When they picked up his new suit it fit perfectly, which could only mean he had gained more weight (the tailor looked astonished). 

When they arrived at the Ritz for their tea with the boys, Aziraphale could feel all eyes on him, and reveled in it. Even Adam and Warlock looked a little wide eyed, but said nothing. Crowley ordered a full cream tea and then added a slew of extra items and asked for extra clotted cream on top of it. Then they got down to business.

“I’m afraid to say I’ve decided to retire from the book selling business,” Aziraphale said. “Well, from actively selling them. I’ll still the own the shop, your jobs are not in jeopardy; only I won’t be here, I’ll be in the country full time, and I wondered if you boys felt up to managing the place. I am so pleased with how well you’ve done these past few months.”

Adam and Warlock shot each other a look. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about —“ but then the food arrived and Aziraphale forgot everything else. He emerged two dozen scones later, his new suit feeling a bit tighter, clotted cream smeared on his lips, slightly satiated, but not enough to keep him from keeping up a continuous stream of pastries into his mouth as Warlock resumed the conversation.

”Well, I recently received a chunk of my trust fund, but it’s u see the condition that I invest it in something. And I was wondering .. well, if I could invest it in the shop.”

Aziraphale frowned, confused, but then Crowley said, “He wants to buy the bookshop, angel.”

His eyes widened. “Dear boy,” he said, “Being American I’m not sure if you realize just how expensive London real estate is ...”

Then Warlock named a price, far surpassing the admittedly vague notion Aziraphale had of what the shop was worth - stock included. Crowley let out a low whistle. “Well,” Aziraphale stammered. “I ... suppose ... that would make things a little simpler.”

”It’s up to you, angel,” Crowley said.

”I’d need to go through the collection,” Aziraphale murmured. “There’s some pieces there I couldn’t bear to part with.” Warlock readily agreed. “Well,” he said. “I suppose I’ll have to consider it.” But he knew in his heart he was going to say yes.

Within a week all of the papers had been signed, and the shop belonged to Warlock. They’d spent a day at the shop selecting books that Aziraphale wanted to keep - more accurately, Aziraphale spent it draped in an armchair eating and endless supply of chocolate bon bons and brandy and giving Warlock trade advice in between sending Crowley and Adam off in search of items he only gave the vaguest description and location of. He was feeling very content. The moment he’d entered the shop he knew he’d made the right decision - mostly because he nearly got stuck in the front door. 

He and Crowley spent the last week in London visiting all their old favorite restaurants. All over town he burst buttons, got stuck in chairs, and practically needed to be carried out by the end, Crowley on one side and a hapless waiter on the other. By the time moving day came around, he was finding it harder and harder to squeeze himself into the Bentley, especially when he was stuffed to maximum capacity. Halfway through the week his tummy had begun to brush against the dashboard, and everyday it pressed firmer against it. He was so incredibly round. After one particular feast at his favorite sushi restaurant, he actually got stuck in the car for a bit. Somehow they’d squeezed him in there, but by the time they reached the flat, perhaps his belly had bloated even more with all the rice inside it, and they could no longer peel him out. They spent a good hour in the front seat, rubbing his distended monstrous gut and pushing belches from his mouth until it had softened enough to free him.

”How do you feel about sitting in the backseat for the drive back to the cottage?” Crowley asked the next day. “It’s roomier back there. Also, I got you this,” and he produced a strap of nylon belt with a metal clasp, and explained it was a seatbelt extender. Aziraphale had rather outgrown the standard one.

At last day, moving day arrived. They spent the last night at home in the flat, mostly devoid of furniture and belongings,A except the bed. They ordered piles of takeout food and Aziraphale ate until his belly was round and taut like a swollen balloon, then passed out. When he woke up, Crowley had to roll him off the bed and pull him to his feet, and he could barely hold himself up. He was well in his way to immobility already.

In the car they settled him into the back seat, which was indeed roomier. Even better, there was space on either side for bags of snacks Crowley had packed for him. He got started right away and didn’t pause once until they arrived at the cottage a little over an hour later due to traffic. He’d made a considerable dent in the snacks, and kept going at them while Crowley unloaded the car, spoke to the delivery people who’d met them there, and disappeared inside the house for a bit to make sure it was all in order. At last he realized there was nothing left - he had eaten all the snacks. His belly was hard and throbbing, and the seat felt a lot less roomier, but he was still hungry. He sat for a bit, rubbing his belly contentedly, but when Crowley didn’t return, it began to rumble. He tried to ignore it but it only got worse. He was starving! He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone so long without eating when he wasn’t asleep. He whimpered and stroked his huge belly, but he was getting hungrier and hungrier.

At last Crowley appeared in the doorway and headed to the car. “Sorry for the wait, angel —“

Aziraphale’s stomach rumbled. “Crowley, is there food in there? I’m starving. I need to eat now.”

His eyes widened and then he grinned. “Ate up everything I packed, did you?” Aziraphale nodded. “That was a lot of food, angel. Would have kept you very satisfied a few months ago. You’re getting so greedy.”

”Please, Crowley,” he begged. “I need more food.”

Crowley tried to act unaffected but his breath sped up. “Good thing I’ve got something that might help with that. It was what I was preparing in there. Come on.”

Aziraphale wriggled a little but could barely move. He wasn’t stuck, but he was so heavy. Crowley had to come around the other side and push him, then come back to help him get out. 

The walk to the cottage took forever; his belt was so heavy, so full, it was shocking that he was still so hungry. They went straight to the bedroom and Crowley laid him out on the bed, undressing him. “Notice anything new?”

Aziraphake looked up. The first thing he saw was a series of pulleys above him. “What’s that?”

”Well, since you indicated to me that you don’t want to stop gaining even if you become immobile, I added a few things in here while we were away to make that possible. These are to help me lift you and move you when you can’t move yourself. So I can take care of you.” Aziraphake looked at him, wide eyed. “Also, I had the bed fitted with a scale, so we can weigh you more easily. Want to know what it says now?” Aziraphale bossed. They hadn’t weighed him since the beginning of their London trip, and he was eager to know what that week of extreme indulgence had done to him. Crowley punched a few buttons on a panel and whistles. “467 lbs, angel,” he reported. “You are blowing up.” Aziraphake whimpered, caressing all the copious fat that he could reach. “Starting to have a hard time keep that big belly nice and full though, aren’t you?”

”Yes,” he groaned, “I’m so hungry, all the time, I can’t eat enough.”

Crowley’s eyes were heavy lidded with lust. “Well that brings me to the final thing I added to this room, angel.” He reached behind Aziraphale and grabbed a long thick white tube, with a little spigot on one end. “This is optional, angel. You don’t need to use it, but I thought you might be ready for it now.”

”What is it?” He asked, wide eyed.

”It’s a funnel, angel. It’s hooked up to a tank I filled with a concoction kind of like what you usually drink - there’s cream in it, and chocolate, and ice cream, and also some powder people use to help them gain weight. Of course you’ll still eat all the foods you love, but this will help keep you full in between. And you’ll gain weight even faster, too. How does that sound? If you don’t want it, I’ll get rid of it.”

Aziraphale’s eyes had been getting wider and wider as Crowley spoke. He’d never known such things were possible, but now that Crowley had introduced him to the concept it sounded like his greatest dream come true. To be passively filled, growing uncontrollably fatter, while he laid here in utter sloth, never moving a muscle. Never having to stop eating, if he didn’t want to. He couldn’t stop himself. “Can I try it right now?”

Crowley chuckled. “Of course, angel. I’ve already filled it up.”

Aziraphale instantly put the funnel in his mouth and Crowley showed him the switch to turn the machine on. At once a dreamily liquid shot through the tube and began to pour into his mouth. Aziraphale moaned and closed his eyes and began to swallow rapidly to keep up with the flow. Oh, god. He’d never know such bliss was possible. He lost all track of time and place, just endlessly swallowing and being filled. He never wanted it to end but eventually it did, and he let the funnel fall from his mouth with a cry of displeasure. “More!”

Crowley chuckled. His face was flushed. “I don’t think you can fit anymore in there angel, look at yourself.” 

Aziraphale blinked and took in his surroundings. His belly was huge, round, shiny and pink with strain. He was so full he could scarcely breathe. 

”Full,” he managed to gasp, feeling brainless. “S’full.”

”I refilled the tank twice,” Crowley murmured. “It’s been hours. You’re amazing.” He settled into the bed, exhausted. Aziraphale noticed he was naked and drenched in sweat. Crowley caught him staring and grinned. “Couldn’t help myself. Hottest thing I’ve ever seen, angel. I rubbed myself off so much I almost went blind.” He trailed a hand over Aziraphale’s inflated side. “What about you? Need any help down there?”

He shook his head dreamily. He felt peculiarly removed from his body, even as he was grounded in it substantial size. It was as if he’d transcended to a high pleasure. “Wake me up when I can eat again,” he tried to say, but wasn’t sure what actually got out before he slipped into a deep sleep.

His last thought as he drifted off that this was how he intended to spend the rest of his life, and he was sure that with Crowley’s help, he would.


End file.
